Holy Sonnet 10: Death, Be Not Proud

John Donne

1572 to 1631

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Track 1

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And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

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